Stones for Bread (16 page)

O
N
B
AKING
D
AY

P
REPARING THE
B
AGUETTE
D
OUGH

In a large bowl or stand mixer, combine the firm starter and the water, stirring until the firm starter is partially dissolved and the mixture is slightly frothy. Add 120 grams (1 cup) of flour and stir
with a spoon until well combined. Add the salt and just enough of the remaining flour to make a stiff ball that can no longer be stirred. Turn out onto a well-floured surface and knead until the dough is firm and smooth, about 15 minutes. Or use a stand mixer with dough hook on low to medium speed for 10 to 12 minutes. The dough is ready when a pinch of dough pulled from the ball springs back quickly.

Shape the dough into a ball and place in a lightly oiled bowl, turning once to coat. Cover with a clean, damp towel or plastic wrap and let ferment for two hours. It will increase about ¼ in volume.

D
IVIDE AND
S
HAPE

After 2 hours, turn out the dough to a lightly floured surface. Knead briefly and then cut into 6 equal pieces. Shape each piece into a small, tight ball and cover with a damp towel or plastic wrap for 30 minutes. After the half hour has passed, shape each ball into a baguette. To do this, flatten the ball of dough with the heel of the hand and stretch a little, until it resembles an oval. Fold the top edge of the dough one-third of the way down and seal with the side of the hand. Then fold the bottom edge one-third of the way up and seal—like folding a business letter so it fits in an envelope. Use the side of your hand to crease the dough down the center and fold in half. Again, seal the edge, creating a taut, smooth log shape. Sprinkle the work surface with a small amount of additional flour and gently press and roll your dough into the long baguette form, starting with hands in the center of the log and moving outward, until the loaf is as long as your bread pan or couche—usually 12 to 15 inches (be sure the baguettes will fit on the baking stone). Transfer the baguette, seam side up, to a well-floured couche or baguette form. If using the couche, bunch the cloth around the dough so it will help hold
the dough’s shape. Cover with plastic wrap or a damp cloth and let proof for 2 hours, until the baguettes double in size; a slight indentation will remain when the dough is lightly pressed.

B
AKE

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Position the oven rack with baking stone in the center of the oven. Very carefully roll the baguettes from the couche to a lightly floured peel or parchment paper; the loaves will be seam side down now. Score the dough, making ¼- to ½-inch cuts along the length of the loaf. Slide the loaves onto the baking stone. Spray the inner walls of the oven with cold water from the spray bottle until steam has filled the oven. Close the door, wait 3 minutes, and repeat. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the loaves are golden brown and the crust is firm. Check doneness by tapping the bottom of the loaf; if it sounds hollow, it is finished baking. If not, bake for 5 more minutes. Cool baguettes on a wire rack.

Because baguettes have a nearly even crust-to-crumb ratio, they stale very quickly. If the loaves will not be eaten within 24 to 36 hours, freezing them is a good way to preserve their freshness. Wrap cooled loaves in plastic wrap and then aluminum foil, and store in the freezer until needed. To reheat, place thawed baguettes in a 350-degree-Fahrenheit oven for 15 minutes.

The baguettes are ready to bake.

With the tenderness of battlefield nurses carrying the stretcher of a dying soldier, Xavier and Jude move my loaves into the kitchen. Jonathan Scott and his assistants follow with his own dough. The oven is ready. Xavier transfers my baguettes to a cornmeal-covered peel, and I slash each one before he slides them onto the hot bricks to bake. He hands the peel to Jonathan. “Your turn.”

“Thanks,” the chef says, and expertly adds his loaves next to mine.

And we watch, silent, the heat from the oven uncomfortable and yet welcome. The crust browns, a Maillard reaction between sugar and amino acids, and for me the magic of bread only increases as it becomes less mysterious and more understood, the complex scientific reasons for color and flavor so . . . so . . .

“Beautiful,” Jonathan says.

He speaks of the baguettes, now ready to be taken from the oven, not the thoughts rattling around my head. But either way the word fits. Xavier removes all the loaves, slipping mine into the basket Jude holds and the others into a basket for Jonathan. “There you are.”

“We better not get these mixed up,” Jonathan says, and his assistant takes his baguettes to his work space in the other room.

Jude tucks mine onto the counter. “Not possible.”

“Loyalty. I like it,” Jonathan says. “Now, do I get to see your famous starters?”

“There’s not much to see. A bunch of gallon-sized buckets,” I tell him, but drift toward the cooler. He follows, as does Gretchen, a bit too close. “And they’re certainly not famous.”

He whistles, sharp and low. “Which is which?”

Each lid is labeled, but like a parent of multiples, I know them by sight. My regulars first. A hand-ground Desem starter tied in linen, the buttermilk starter, a white flour barm, a pure rye, and then my mother’s—my grandmother’s, my great-grandmother’s—culture. Two of them. I keep one in a bucket to feed and use. The other is tucked in the topmost, backmost corner of the cooler, in the small stoneware crock in which Oma carried it from Germany. I feed and divide that one too, but rarely bake with it—and never bread I sell.

And then the ones I’m playing with now, a spelt-based starter, a wheat and barley mix, and one with both flour and potato.

“Do you use the same build method for all of them?” Jonathan asks.

“No. I know conventional wisdom is to find something that works and stick with it, but, honestly, I get a little bored.”

He nods to two other cultures on the counter, still developing. “And you don’t use a proofing box?”

I shake my head.

“Living on the edge,” he says with a laugh.

“Maybe just a little old-fashioned,” I tell him.

“Did your mother experiment as well?”

“No.”

The direct, flat answer catches him off guard, and he withdraws, not visibly, but sensing he’s crossed some line I’ve sketched around myself. The question doesn’t necessarily bother me, but I don’t want it today because it only brings distance between her and me. I want to be like her when it comes to bread, and in most ways we’re identical. I don’t consider whether the similarities are there because we are the same in substance, because she taught me and that’s what I know first, or because I won’t deviate from her ways for fear of forgetting.

I am different, though, when it comes to sourdough. My mother loved to bake with wild yeast; more than half her loaves used Oma’s starter. But she never considered making her own culture, or that any other was needed besides the one in the crock in her refrigerator. I made my first starter at fifteen and fell in love with the
unpredictability
of it. The yeast is wild, the process is wild. It changes minute by minute. It’s observable; even years later I can’t help but peek at the jar on my counter every hour or two, watching bubbles expand and measuring the slurry of flour and water as it creeps up the sides. All the things I can’t seem to do with dough—the improvisation, the eyeballing of ingredients, the freedom to defy convention—I love doing within the microcosm of a Mason jar. I refuse to take notes even, despite once beginning a neat, black-covered notebook for it.

“Sorry,” I say.

Jonathan touches my arm. There’s no spark, nothing inherently inappropriate or forward about the action. It doesn’t seem even warm, not done in a friendly sort of way—and how could it? We’re not friends, or colleagues, merely two strangers brought together by the odd, reality television–driven world in which we live, knowing one another only in facts listed on websites and contest entry forms. The motion of him reaching out to me is automatic, driven by the bread within. He’s like Xavier, Jude. The dough has seeped through the skin of his palms, burrowed deep, and grown. The passion we share recognizes itself before we see it there ourselves.

Gretchen, tired of being outside it all, begins to chatter. Jonathan’s attention is diverted, and I hurry to the bathroom to wash my face, forgetting all about my makeup. The waterproof mascara stays put; the rest of it smears onto the rough paper towel. I take time to sit with no one around, the bulb in the ceiling humming down on me, my face gaunt in the feeble light. I read the wrapping on the toilet tissue rolls and the soap bottle label until enough time has passed. I find the kitchen as I left it, Gretchen yapping and Jonathan nodding, Xavier and Jude watching from the corner with amusement.

“So,” Jonathan says. “Who am I cooking for?”

“I’d love lunch,” Gretchen says.

“Too bad we need you to run some errands,” Xavier tells her.

“What?”

He hands her a list. “You are getting paid for today.”

“All right,” she grumbles, stuffing the paper in her back pocket without folding it. “I’ll be back—”

“—at two,” Xavier says.

She squints at him, then turns and sweetly offers her hand to Jonathan. “It’s been lovely to meet you.”

“You too, Gretchen. We’ll talk more this afternoon, I’m sure.”

“I’d like that.”

When she goes, Jonathan turns to the men. “Lunch for you?”

“No, we’re on our way out as well,” Xavier says. “Also have a few things to do before the judging.”

Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes at him. He pats me on the shoulder as he passes, as does Jude, who whispers, “Behave.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to ditch me too,” Jonathan says.

I want to. My head pounds with exhaustion and talk and everything else bombarding me the past week. I see he’s offering to prepare a meal out of kindness and no other motive. He cooks because it’s who he is, and he can’t help but share that enthusiasm with others.

I understand.

“No, I’ll eat.”

“Don’t make me twist your arm.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Long day?”

“Long day. Long week. Long everything.”

He nods, swipes his finger over his smartphone, and pecks at the screen. “I hear you.”

Minutes later one of his assistants knocks on the back door, plastic grocery bag in hand, black case in another. Jonathan takes them both and thanks her. He must know I need a break because he doesn’t try to engage me in what he’s doing. Or perhaps he needs the respite too, and he finds his peace in chopping and sautéing and making foods better than they can be on their own. He moves instinctively around the stove, never asking where something is, opening drawers and removing utensils. He brings his own knives, unzips the case. I’m soothed by watching him. He halves fresh Brussels sprouts and tosses them in a pan of butter and garlic, squeezes the juice of a lemon over them. He thinly slices two sweet potatoes, setting them to boil. When they’re soft, he mashes and seasons them. Another pan heating on the gas burner, this one for rounds of filet mignon, seared and drizzled with a red wine reduction.

He plates the food and presents it to me, with a fork from Tee’s drawer and a steak knife from his kit. “Madam, lunch is served.”

“It’s lovely.”

“I know.” His words are without pride or arrogance. He can say it to me because I understand. It’s no crime to be skilled and know it.

We eat with only the sound of flatware against ceramic dishes, until finally Jonathan says, “This kitchen is really well laid out. Everything is where you’d expect it to be.”

“That’s Tee. My cook. She’s quite . . . fastidious. When you meet her this afternoon, she’ll probably give you an earful for using her beloved pots.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Another lull. Now I say, “Are your baguettes yeasted?”

“Guilty.” He covers his eyes with his hand in mock shame. “I’m no sourdough expert. Actually, in all honesty, I’ve never gotten the hang of it. This is the dough I use in my restaurant, a variation on
pain a l’ancienne
.”

“I can’t wait to try it.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He disappears briefly into the café and returns with one of the long, slender loaves baked less than two hours ago. But before sitting, he grabs one of my baguettes too, shaking it like a sword as he comes back to the table. “Fair’s fair.”

“As long as it’s not breaking any rules.”

“I make the rules.”

Taking a wooden cutting board from where it hangs on the pot rack above us, he lines both loaves on it and holds his serrated knife over them. “Some days I hate cutting into it,” he tells me. “Destroying the perfection of it all.”

Jonathan’s baguette is much more rustic than mine, knobby and arthritic, the bony fingers of the ancients the name suggests. He slices. The crust is thicker, the crumb yellowish with erratically sized holes. I take a bite. Delicious. He doesn’t expect comment, though, instead slicing through my more traditional-looking loaf. The rooms are more
uniform, each about the size of the tip of my pinky—I stick my finger in them, sometimes, measuring—the texture slightly heavier. He takes a bite now, moves the bread around his mouth slowly. Then he wipes it over his place, soaking up wine and beef juice and garlicky residue from the sprouts. “You think I’m a charlatan for that.”